


It Takes More Damage to Make it Whole

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Control Issues, Cutting, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Kanima, Jackson just wants to be in control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes More Damage to Make it Whole

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: SELF-HARM.
> 
> This was written for prompt #56 - Float at fullmoon_ficlet. This story bowled me over and gave me no choice about writing it. I'll talk more about the topic at the end and in the meantime, heed the warning. As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to write about them.

_It used to only take one tiny slice._

It’s been a long time since Jackson tried this, since he had the need to control himself like this. He has made a regimen out of his life, the way he eats, the way he sculpts and creates his body. Until the bite, which was supposed to make everything better but it only stripped away all possible veneer from his skin, leaving him shaking and torn, and out of control.

 

_It used to only take one tiny slice._

The box with the razor blade was hidden in the bottom of his closet. His hands shook when he took it out and looked at it while he was packing his things. He should throw it out; he knew that. He knew that there was no reason to slip this inside a box labeled “bedroom” and let it be shipped all the way to London.

Even if he still needed it, there are razors in London. There are sharp objects there, maybe even a perfect little antique weapon or a sweet hunting knife like the something the Argents might have.

There would be things with different meanings, other than the old razor that made tiny scratches in his skin when he was twelve years old and it was the only thing he had for himself.

He closed the box and wrapped it in tape, securing it carefully. It went into a box between a pile of expensive sweaters and some books—always pack both light and heavy things in the same box to balance out the weight, his mother had told him.

Small as it was, that box was one of the heaviest things he owned.

 

_It used to only take one tiny slice._

It wasn’t about the blood or the injury. It wasn’t about the tiny white scars that he left behind (scars that are gone now). It was about the way it made him feel. It was about the _control_.

They told him on his twelfth birthday. His father said it was time that he knew, that he was growing up and the truth was important.

They told him that he was never truly who he thought he was.

He wasn’t a Whittemore.

He wasn’t _real_.

Jackson didn’t know what to do with this information, didn’t know why they were telling him this now. Wasn’t he good enough? Hadn’t he done everything they wanted? Wasn’t he _perfect_? Or was it that they couldn’t love him, so they were going to take it all away slowly, starting with the truth of his blood and someday ending with the destruction of his family… no.

No.

Jackson couldn’t let them take it all away.

He needed _something_ that was his, and all he had was his body and blood.

So he slipped the tip of the razor under his skin, jerking at the bright point of pain. He watched, fascinated, as the tiny dot of blood welled up, then he drew the blade gently over his arm, watching the line expand.

He did that.

_He did that_.

He sucked in air and held it, feeling his mind float, narrowing his consciousness down to that simple line.

He made those lines on his arms. No one could take that away from him.

 

_It used to only take one tiny slice._

In London, Jackson is adrift. He has no anchors in other people—his parents aren’t truly his, and his friends are still back in California. He needs something.

He needs _something_.

He finds the box from where it sits at the bottom of his new closet, unpacked and carefully stowed. He imagines the weight of it when he lifts it, and opens it to find one tiny blade. It seems so much smaller now than it did when he was twelve, but it is no less difficult to lift it and set the point against his arm.

He jerks with remembered pain, but the slice come more easily.

The blood disappears as soon as it is drawn, and he remains firmly rooted in himself.

It doesn’t work.

With a snarl, he throws the blade across the room and falls back onto the bed. He needs something, and he cannot seem to find his way back.

 

_It used to only take one tiny slice._

It is the middle of the night when he crawls across the floor, eyes flashing in the moonlight until he spots the blade where it has fallen behind his desk. He kneels there, staring down at his bare legs and the silvered blade.

He knows what he has to do.

When he was young, it took a delicate touch, a soft and gentle control.

He is different now.

He has been pure chaos and venom, and now he is barely leashed strength and violence. That is what he must control.

He digs the blade in deep, stroking it across the meat of his thigh. He hisses at the feel of it, watches the blood well up. He finds that place in his mind, that spot where he can revel in the pain before it disappears. He finds solace in control.

 

_It used to only take one tiny slice._

Now it takes a deep gash and a rush of blood, but Jackson finally floats in that space beyond himself, letting himself go while he waits to heal and be whole once more.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is entirely about Jackson's issues. It is about his view of himself, and his ways of trying to take control when he feels he has lost it. I'm not trying to write self-harm in a positive way, definitely not. I think we can all agree that Jackson's not doing good things for himself (for all that he thinks he is). 
> 
> If you want to, you can come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com).


End file.
